


Save Us

by 221Btls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, She's clever., Why can Sherlock never take the direct route?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 17:23:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9082201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: Sherlock and John have been at odds for months, ever since John learned that Mary’s child was not his. Sherlock presents his need for an appointment with Ella using John’s symptoms, hoping to find answers that will save John’s and his relationship.





	

Crouching at the bottom drawer of the file cabinet, Sherlock fingered the folders’ tabs: Vernon, Michael G; Waghmare, Nishi H; Walton, Angela B; Watson, Dr. John H _._  Pulling out John’s file, Sherlock deftly slipped it inside his coat and sat in the chair he’d been in when Ella had left the room.

The _ease_ with which Sherlock accessed John’s confidential information—deplorable, really. No locks to pick, no elaborate filing system to decode. All it had taken was one well-timed phone call to draw Ella away (unsurprisingly, it had come naturally to Wiggins to act the man on the verge of a breakdown), and Sherlock had most of what he’d come for. Pfft.

Sherlock raked his thumbnail along the edges of the pages inside his Belstaff, itching to read through them, but he’d have time enough later to dissect every note that would tell him what was troubling John. To discover the hidden depths of the man who, though in the past had called Sherlock his best friend, had barely spoken to him in months.

Ever since John learned the child was not his (subsequently divorcing Mary, rightly so), he had been a shadow of his former self, floating through life disconnected from what went on around him. Sherlock saw him next to never, and on the infrequent occasions John accompanied Sherlock on cases, he was withdrawn. Sherlock had enough grasp of human emotion to understand why John might be affected by his change of circumstances, but why would it mean that John would push Sherlock away?

Even to himself, Sherlock had trouble articulating the ache inside caused by the absence of the John he knew. The John with whom Sherlock had shared an easy camaraderie that, since the day they had met, Sherlock had always been able to depend upon _\--_ until now, at least. The John who, while sometimes irritable, Sherlock had been able to make smile with a particularly clever deduction or a succinct snipe at Mycroft.

“My apologies for the delay, Sherlock. Let’s get started, shall we?” Ella walked into the room, sitting across from Sherlock. Picking up the notepad and pen from the table next to her chair, she set them on her lap.

“I trust your call was productive?” It was all Sherlock could do to hold back a smug smile.

“I’m more concerned with what brings you here. Your intake sheet indicates you’ve not been eating or sleeping well and have had trouble concentrating. Can you tell me a bit about that?”

So, she wasn’t going to share. Disappointing.

“Ahh, quite right. Not only can I not eat or sleep, but I rarely talk, not even to my best friend. And when I do, I can be quite peevish.” John’s last words to him had been something to the effect of sending Sherlock, roped to a very large anchor, to the bottom of the Thames. Clearly not the sentiment of someone who still considered Sherlock “the best and wisest man.” 

Ella scribbled in her notebook, and when she looked up, Sherlock leaned back quickly from where he’d been trying to read her writing.

“These are serious issues, Sherlock; I can see why you’re concerned. First, let’s go over your history; then we can discuss any course of treatment that might be needed. Are these issues new? Perhaps in response to some particular event? Or are they ongoing?”

“Hmmm, I would have to say the developments are new.”

“Is it no, or are you unsure?”

“I see no need to make a distinction. I am here to speak to a matter that is concerning me at _this_ particular moment.” Why was she making it so difficult?

“What you’re describing are common symptoms of depression, and rarely with that condition, are they an isolated event; too, there’s often a history of it in the family. While I’m not suggesting you suffer from chronic depression, it would be useful to rule it out if it’s not the cause. Would you like more time to think about your answer?”

Sherlock scanned his memory, searching for any correlation between fluctuations in John’s moods and when he’d sought counseling. But not until recently had John manifested such aberrant behavior, not in mood and not in eating habits.

“No,” Sherlock said, confident in his answer. “I have no history of depression.”

Ella put down her pen and folded her hands, quietly observing Sherlock.

_What is it she’s waiting for? More information?_

Did John _have_ a family? Oh, yes, Harry. Given her history of alcoholism and failed relationships, it was quite likely she was depressed, but Sherlock had no intent of arming Ella with information she might not already have. It also wasn’t his intent to diagnose John; he had only used the ruse as a means to access her office.

“As to my family, I’m unaware of any history,” he said. And recalling one of the books he’d recently skimmed— _“Mirroring your target’s body posture can lower their defenses, relaxing them and making them more apt to reveal information they might not otherwise”—_ he folded his hands to mirror Ella’s.

Not saying a word, Ella continued to watch him. Had he given the wrong answer?

“My family and I have been estranged for years,” Sherlock added in an attempt to curb that line of questioning.

Ella leaned forward, resting her elbows on her thighs. “What’s the real reason you’re here, Sherlock?”

“I do apologize; I hadn’t realized you’re hearing-impaired,” he said, projecting his already resonant voice. _There. That will move things along._

“You show no physiological signs of food or sleep deprivation.” Ella went on as if Sherlock had not said anything. “You took a considerable amount of time to decide if you have had such difficulties before, and now you’re drumming your fingers; you seem nervous. Why is that?”

Sherlock stopped drumming. Smoothing an invisible wrinkle from his coat, he refolded his hands on his lap.

“I am not nervous; I am impatient. Perhaps you should consult your garish display of reference books for _those_ symptoms.”

“I’d be nervous, too,” Ella said, her gaze direct and unwavering, “if I were fabricating a story in an attempt to obtain information I legally have no right to.” After a long pause as she waited for Sherlock to respond, when he did not, she asked, “Are you in love with Dr. Watson?”

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. I underestimated her; she knows I’m here to find out about John. And here I thought that the certificates on her wall must be purely decorative. After all, who was it who cured John’s psychosomatic limp? Me. Who was it who extricated him from the marriage that could have quite literally been the death of him? Me._

“I fail to see the relevance,” Sherlock said dryly.

“The relevance goes to your motive, Sherlock. You clearly care a great deal about Dr. Watson and want to see him happy; you wouldn’t be here, otherwise. But the question is, do you want what’s best for him or what’s best for you?”

“Again, I fail to see the relevance. Caring for John as a friend, I want him happy. If I am in love with him—and I am not saying I am; I am merely offering it as a comparative discourse—I still should want him happy. Same motives, same outcome.” Score one for Sherlock Holmes.

“It’s a dangerous thing, Sherlock, for someone without extensive education and training to make a diagnosis, and even if Dr. Watson is depressed, it’s dangerous for you, as a layperson, to attempt to treat it. You could do him more harm than good.”

“Which is why I come to you. You have better knowledge of John than any—”

“You know I can’t discuss my patients with you. Just by confirming he’s a patient, I could lose my license.”

“We’ll call him Patient X, then. Speak in hypotheticals.”

“Are you in love with him?” Ella’s voice had become soft, almost intimate, a tone Sherlock associated only with people speaking to an injured animal. Or person.

Sherlock stared out the window. The same window John had looked out of scores of times. He ran his palms over the armrests of the same chair John would have sat in as he shared his most private thoughts with a woman who could not help him. Yet, John had kept coming back. Why?

“This conversation is over,” Sherlock said. “I can see it’s been a waste of my time.”

Ella shut her notebook, seeming reluctant to do so. “You have another thirty minutes left if you want to talk about something that concerns you personally.”

“You know what concerns me.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, really.” Ella rose and, moving to the door, she rested her hand on the knob.

“Surely, there’s something you can do. Something I can do. I—I can’t lose John,” he said. And though he thought the wavering voice and glistening tear nice touches, the façade of desperation felt all too real.

With the same soft voice she’d used earlier, Ella said, “Isn’t that up to him?”

~*~

A cab pulled to the curb in front of Ella’s building, and Sherlock climbed into the back.

“221B Baker St.”

The appointment had been abysmally lacking in substantive information, but the file should tell him everything he needed to know. It had to; it was all he had left. There was a certain heft to it as it sat on his lap, holding several inches worth of paper. Paper on which the inner workings of John Watson were recorded. Removing his gloves, Sherlock opened the folder, and his brow furrowed when he looked inside—a blank sheet of paper stared up at him.

A sense of dread filling him, Sherlock riffled through the sheets; he saw nothing but blank pages, and he riffled through them again. No, he had not missed anything. _Useless!_ The folder had been planted.

Sherlock slumped in his seat, burrowing himself into the deepest crevices of his mind.

He thought back to the Ella’s parting comment as he passed out her door: “Sometimes, Sherlock, when someone believes they’ve lost everything, it’s possible that they think they can’t still have the one thing they truly want.” He had dismissed her words as one of those hollow platitudes that someone blurts out when they didn’t know what else to say, sound to fill an awkward void.

Except…Ella had proved herself to be a far worthier opponent than Sherlock had thought she’d be. Perhaps it wasn’t a platitude but a clue?

_But what could she have meant? And did what she say apply to John or to me?_

Sherlock pondered the worthless folder on his legs, and drawing his hands up, he steepled them at his lips. He had work to do.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The story title is from Paul McCartney's album NEW.


End file.
